It was lucky for Simon--if it were proper to think of a man's death as lucky--that the funeral of Count Raymond of Provence, father of Louis's Queen Marguerite, had brought the king here, so close to Italy. Otherwise Simon might still be traveling northward with the pope's letter. When he landed at Aigues-Mortes he had found the whole port abuzz with the news of Count Raymond's death and of the coming of the French royal family to bury him in state and settle the future of the county of Provence. A traveler from a foreign land looking at Louis would never imagine that he was a king, Simon thought. A plain brown felt cap covered Louis's thinning gray hair, draping down one side of his head. His robe and a cloak of thin, cheap wool, dyed black, were not warm enough for this chill September morning. Perhaps, Simon thought, the penitential shirt of woven horsehair he wore next to his skin warmed Louis even as it discomforted him. He carried no weapon at his dull leather belt, only the parchment scroll, the pope's letter, which Simon had given him the night before. Louis's shoes were of the same sort of leather as his belt, and the points of their toes were far too short to be fashionable. Simon felt overdressed beside the king, and resolved that from now on he would try to dress more plainly. With his long fingers, King Louis tapped the scroll tucked into his belt. "He afflicts me sorely, this Jacques Pantaleone, this Pope Urban." "The pope afflicts you, Sire?" Simon was surprised to see the king unhappy about the pope's message to him. He had expected Louis to be overjoyed at getting permission to deal with the Tartars. A sudden worry struck him. What if the king and the pope could not agree? All his work would have been for nothing--over a year of his life, all the fighting and dying--to say nothing of the personal expense of paying forty Venetian crossbowmen for over a year and maintaining six knights-- Now five, a grief-laden thought reminded him. Yes, and what about Alain? Was his death to be for nothing? Worst of all, the accomplishment he had hoped would put him on the road to redeeming his family's honor would be no accomplishment at all. The year wasted, lives wasted, the shadow of treason still lying upon his name and title. What joy he had felt only a little earlier this morning, knowing he would accompany King Louis on his morning walk after Mass. Now his eager anticipation seemed like so much foolishness. _But, of all the men in the world, this is the one I would never want to disappoint._ Whatever Louis decided _must_ be right. But, dear God, let him not decide to cast away the alliance. Louis said, "Urban grants the thing I want most in the world, but only if I agree to that which I desire least. And I do not want to give in to him." _Oh, God!_ The sky seemed to darken. "What does he ask you to do, Sire?"